


come into my castle

by demisms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:24:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demisms/pseuds/demisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Theon Greyjoy, newly named Lord of the Iron Islands, has to pledge fealty to King Jon Targaryen, the former bastard boy of Winterfell and his childhood rival.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>written for the asoiaf kink meme</p>
            </blockquote>





	come into my castle

**come into my castle.**

-

His knees ache from kneeling. The floors of the dining halls of Pyke have always been uneven, jagged and sharp and slicked with dried salt. The floor was much like the people of the Iron Isles that way, though Theon had no doubt they were more comfortable when kneeling on it for, yes, now the iron born _knelt._

_"You can't be king, Snow," he used to tell him when they were children playing in the godswood._

He had sailed his ships. Captained his crews. Commanded their respect with victories in battle and a gradual readjustment into the ways of his people - _ours is the old way_ \-  and his seat on the Sea Stone chair. He had fought with axe and shield almost as much as bow and arrow, more than sword and dirk; worn the black and gold kraken on his breast more than he ever had in the north. He had unfrozen, gradually, and become salt and iron. 

But he was shivering now. 

_Jon Snow's face had become drawn, mouth pouted open in a stupid half pout of confusion. "Why not, Greyjoy?"_

His mouth moved in words as if of it's own accord. It was a habit he had not shaken from boyhood, the mindless running of his mouth and endless chatter that spilled forth from his lips. It was a useful trait, pledges fell from him and echoed around the room. Theon had really no true idea what he was saying, simply let the recitation flow from his mouth and trusted they came out well; he let his eyes wander, up, to a face familiar but not, known but not loved. 

_"Because you're a bastard."_

And still was by his standards. But if the rumors were to be believed, if the talk of _dragons_ was true, than there was no bastard sitting on the Iron Throne.

_"Now kneel."_

"Rise," the king bids him, motions with a gloved hand and Theon picks himself up carefully, gracefully and gives a sweeping bow. 

_Jon had knelt._

_"And call me Your Grace."_

"My king. You have my swords." Though the words stick, they are there. Spoken. Before his whole council, his family, his crew, his people; it has been decreed, written in more blood than was shared between the two. 

_"Call me The King Of The North."_

The king offers a hand to grasp his. 

_"No," Jon says. "You can't be King of the North. You're not from the North."_

"Lord Greyjoy," he says, and his voice is deeper than Theon remembered. 

_This time he means it as a curse. "Bastard."_

"Your Grace."


End file.
